A Dead Boche

To you who'd read my songs of War And only hear of blood and fame, I'll say (you've heard it said before) "War's Hell! " and if you doubt the same, Today I found in Mametz WoodA certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk, In a great mess of things unclean, Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk With clothes and face a sodden green,Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

The Poet In The Nursery

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumblingThat rhymes were beastly things and never there.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I’d been writing,...